


Perfect Timing

by craple



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:30:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is nothing suspicious about Derek knowing Stiles’ dates and showing up at the worst times. <i>Nothing</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Timing

**Author's Note:**

> i was bored. this happened.

The jeans Lydia picks up fit quite snugly around Stiles’ waist. A little bit lower, maybe, for reasons Stiles rather not think about. They don’t cling to him like second skin, the way most male population in his school with the exception of Scott prefer to wear when they are planning on getting laid.

Lydia looks at him – well, specifically his _ass_ , which stands out more than he likes them to be – critically. It’s probably the boxer brief she’s glaring at, navy-blue and silky-smooth against his skin, the size neither too tight nor too loose like the rest of his clothes are. One of his favourites, and he is _not taking it off_ , no matter what she’s going to say.

“I’m not taking the boxer off,” Stiles tells her, defiantly. He might or might not have cringed a little when Lydia’s laser eyes refocus on his face.

Lydia’s lips pursed, and no, oh no, that is definitely not a good sign. “There is no complain from me about the boxer brief,” Lydia says. “Just... we need to get you a belt.”

Stiles nods savagely. “Okay, belt, yes, I can work with that. _We_ can work with that.” Some of his dad’s leather belts are still kept in the basement, and since his dad won’t be wearing them anytime soon, sneaking one of them is not going to be hard _or_ to be noticed, he hopes.

After an hour of Lydia looking through his wardrobe and openly judging his taste by verbally abusing every single shirt she snatches, Stiles is finally looking decent enough to be released into the new world that is dating and obscene enough to be fucked on the backseat of his date’s car.

His three years older date, who owns a nice Ferrari that makes him look like a douche, but as long as the seat’s leather, Stiles won’t mind.

The possibility of tonight’s date to be a total disaster is rising higher by the minute. Stiles considers jumping through the window of his bedroom and hit his head with a rock. Maybe getting struck by a lightning or two halfway down, anything will do.

“Mike is a very nice guy,” Lydia says. “And you are not dumping him tonight just because you’re shit at this kind of thing.”

“Hey!” Stiles starts, offended. The look Lydia gives him – hard and annoyed, as if reminding him of the last six dates where he failed to show up – is enough to shut him up. Stiles deflates.

“Everything is going to be fine,” she continues, buttoning the crimson button-down shirt with practiced ease, leaving the first button open _for reasons_ Stiles will never understand.

Stiles takes a deep breath, then smiles. “Everything is going to be fine.”

\--

It doesn’t.

Everything goes to shit, _literally_ , fifteen minutes after he left the house.

And once again, Stiles finds himself driving for his life, in his worn-out precious Betty, with Derek freaking Hale bleeding all over the passenger seat. _Again_.

Man, the cleanup he’s going to have – Stiles is going to be a total asshole for the entire week. He always is, when something happens to Betty, Scott says so.

“Why do you always show up at the worst times,” he whines despairingly to no one but himself as Derek tries to stop the bleeding by – by _taking his clothes off_ and wraps the material around the cut, which, _what the fuck_. “Dude, contrary to popular knowledge, wrapping dirty clothes over stabbed wound is not going to make everything better, _trust me_ , okay, I’ve _tried_.”

Derek grunts. And keeps pressing on his wound. With the dirty clothes. Stiles sorts of wants to bang his head against the steering wheel, and since it’s right in front of him any way, he does. The sound of angry bitches – _witches_ – multiplies.

“This is the _seventh_ date you’ve ruined, Derek, _seventh_. Why do you always show up when I have a date, man, why can’t you bleed all over my jeep when I don’t have anything to do?” he takes sharp left around the corner, leading the witches away from the town and into the forest. “This is it, I give up. I’m going to be dateless and a virgin for the rest of my life.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Derek grunts, and that’s. That’s just.

Uh. “What?”

Derek’s whole attention is directed at the wound, very carefully avoiding Stiles’ eyes, and isn’t that just _ridiculous_ , because it’s not like –

It’s not like –

“Holy _shit_ , you do, don’t you? You know that I have a date tonight, and all the six dates I didn’t manage to show up in lieu of _saving your life_. You totally do!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Derek says, but he doesn’t offer anything else, which means.

“You _do_!” his reflection on the rear-view mirror is absolutely scandalised. “You – you want to _date me_!”

“I _will_ ,” Derek snaps, finally looking at him straight in the eye. “Unless we die tonight, _then_ you’ll be a dateless virgin for the rest of your life.” The statement sounds ridiculous even in Stiles’ head, but he catalogues the look on Derek’s face; nervous, guilty, and – and _shy_ , Jesus fucking _Christ_.

“ _Fine_ ,” Stiles snaps back, kicking the pedal gas harder than necessary, eyes on the road and hopes Derek doesn’t hear the mad flutter of his heart plus the sudden flare of arousal, because his dick is a total _jerk_ like that. “But you’re paying for everything. And by everything, I mean _everything_ , the car and the food and all the scones that come with it.”

“I know,” Derek says, and he sounds relief.

Stiles chews on his lower lip to keep himself from smiling and keeps driving until they reach the old Hale House.


End file.
